


Turnabout

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Assets & Handlers, F/M, Oral Sex, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=94848#cmt94848">a prompt at the MFU kinkmeme</a>, though it went slightly astray from the original concept:</p><p>
  <i>Waverly/Gaby- Dubious Sexual 'Training':</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Either before the movie or after, Waverly tells Gaby that there may be a need for her to seduce somebody- only, he's not entirely confident in her ability to keep her cool, not having any professional training. He may just have to, hmm, test her abilities out himself. All very professionally, of course. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Gaby is very blustery and a bit offended, but she isn't used to being treated so gently, and to her embarrassment finds herself reacting quite a bit.</i>
</p><p>(more details in the notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

> OP also mentioned that they would love:
> 
>  _Waverley driving her absolutely crazy with gentle touches_  
>  _Waverley giving her head (maybe it IS her first time for that), maybe fingering as well_  
>  _Powerplay as Gaby decides to turn the tables on him_  
> ...all of which I'm pretty sure I hit, more or less.
> 
> No beta; errors, if pointed out, will be corrected with alacrity.

"...of course, I'll handle any fallout," Waverly says, handing her a small bowl of cool water and a threadbare washcloth. He'd offer better if they could afford to be spotted together, but as they can't, this is the best he can scrounge up at the dingy little safe house he keeps for their meetings.  
  
Gaby takes the cloth, wets it, and dabs gently at the broken skin on her knuckles, not meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry to be such trouble," she says, and he can tell that it's grudging, that she resents feeling beholden to anyone.  
  
"No, no," Waverly says, sitting next to her on the musty couch, setting the bowl down and taking her battered hand in his. "The crown is quite generous, you know, in taking care of its assets – and you're a valuable one. Which is why I'm worried, you see. You can't keep risking yourself like this.  You could expose yourself or worse, get yourself killed. And I can't... well, the paperwork would be a nightmare, for one thing," he quips, and is gratified to see the ghost of a smile grace her lips. It wouldn't do to admit that it would be a personal blow if something happened to her on his watch, and not just to his professional pride, so he substitutes humor instead. "But you've also shown a great deal of promise as a potential agent. That nasty bit of business with the arms dealers, you spotted that right off and handled it for us with more finesse than some agents with proper training and years of experience might have done. Depending on how things turn out with your–" he does not mention her father directly whenever he can help it "–long-term assignment, I've half a mind to recommend you to full status. If that's something you'd be interested in, naturally."  
  
'Interest' is a mild word for it; the glint in her eye more closely resembles avarice. He can't blame her for it, either. Everything he knows about her past, about her life – which is not an inconsiderable amount – points towards a girl who's always fought for scraps and stayed hungry for better. If his agency could promise a full meal, so to speak, they'd have a dedicated and formidable asset, indeed. "And what would  _that_  take?" she asks, voice neutral.  
  
"For one thing, you can't deck every man with wandering hands," he points out. "Some assignments do require a measure of... ladylike decorum." He clears his throat, looking away. "Others might demand greater sacrifices." It was always difficult, broaching this subject, but she'd need to hear it eventually.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asks, sounding genuinely curious.  
  
"Ah, well," he says. "Some agents have, on occasion, found that the best way to get close to their targets, to gain trust or access to otherwise-guarded areas... is through, um. Intimacy. Of one kind or another."  
  
Gaby pulls her hand away. "That's preposterous."  
  
"I assure you," he says, "it does happen. I've...  _charmed_  a target or two myself, as needed." He gives her a rueful grin. "I might've had a certain appeal, when I was younger." He doesn't tell her that his 'charms' had appealed to more than just the ladies; that isn't something one discusses until it becomes pertinent, and as he's not in the field anymore, it's unlikely to ever be an issue.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure," Gaby replies, and he looks up to see her poorly-hidden amusement.  
  
"Now look here," he says, affronted. "I know I'm not–"  
  
Her mirth spills over into a giggle. "No, no, I thought you knew you were still..." she says, putting her hand on his wrist, just above his watch. "I thought you were fishing for compliments, I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun."  
  
"Oh," he says. "That's. That's all right, then." He almost reaches up to adjust the rims of his glasses in an old fidget but stops himself just in time. "You're forgiven," he adds, mock-sternly, and she grins again.  
  
Too quickly, it fades again to apprehension. "That's not something that gets covered in the... training you mentioned, is it?"  
  
"Oh no," he assures her. "No, no. It's never really even something that one gets  _ordered_  to do, strictly speaking. Only, when one's briefing states, 'by any means neccessary,' and that's the best option under the circumstances..." He shrugs. "It's a valued skillset." And, as honesty is the best policy, he admits, "That's not to say that a few of us didn't have... mentors who provided guidance, of course. It's not something that comes naturally to everyone. I was a stammering wreck before I met Ella, if you can imagine." He chuckles, trying to coax another smile with the self-deprecation.  
  
She doesn't laugh with him; she looks thoughtful for a minute, then resolved, her jaw lifting and her eyes meeting his squarely. "Very well," she announces. "When do we start?"  
  
Waverly blinks at her. "I'm sorry, what?" The penny drops a moment later. "Oh."   
  
_Oh._    
  
That hadn't been what he'd meant, at all. It was unprofessional, to say the least – none of the 'mentorships' he'd known about involved a direct superior and their subordinate, and Ella had been a fellow agent, though one with more experience (both in the field and elsewhere) than he.  _And yet,_  he thinks, looking at her, this lovely, stubborn little slip of a thing for whom he's developing an alarming soft spot,  _I'd be a damned fool if I passed up this opportunity, wouldn't I?_  
  
"...whenever you'd like, I suppose," he finds himself answering. "If you're  _absolutely_  certain."

"I'm sure. And now is fine," Gaby says, still sounding resolute, and then, without warning, she's climbing into his lap. He catches her by the shoulders before she can do any more, starting to doubt if this was a good idea.  
  
"Hang on," he says, "is that the best you can do?"  
  
She scowls darkly at him, looking insulted. "Aren't we going to–"  
  
It's both easy and difficult to lift her off and set her back at his side on the sofa; easy because she's so light in his hands, difficult because the last thing he  _wants_  is to push her away. But if they're going to do this, he plans to do so in earnest. "Only if you're very, very good," he tells her, trying to lighten the mood. "But that's not the kind of thing that works on everyone."  
  
"Oh?" she asks. "No one else has had any complaints."  
  
Waverly ignores the provocation. "Look, there are all sorts of men out there, and yes, some might appreciate the forthright approach. But the ones with the most closely-guarded secrets aren't necessarily going to give it all up, so to speak, at such a crude come-on." She still looks unconvinced. "Besides, you're not looking to be treated like a disposable floozy, you're trying to gain their trust. And one of the best ways to do that is to get  _them_  to pursue  _you._ " He reaches out and brushes her bangs away from her face, fingertips lingering on her cheekbone. "Now, with some etiquette lessons – those  _will_  be a part of your formal training, by the way – and some nicer clothes, maybe a haircut to accentuate this striking jawline of yours–" he traces the angle of it with the pad of his thumb, tweaking her chin lightly "–you won't have any trouble catching the eye of whatever mark you set your sights on, beggars or princes." Color rises in her cheeks, and she looks away.   
  
_God,_  he thinks,  _if she can learn to blush like that on cue, she'll be unstoppable._  
  
"The trick is," he continues, "to keep their attention once you have it. Laugh at their jokes, find little excuses to touch them, give them excuses to touch you. Find out whether they like confident women or modest ones, mischievous or dainty, vulnerable or defiant, and play to that – but subtly."  
  
"And why would you know how women should seduce men?" she asks, plucking at the hem of her skirt, where a thread is unraveling over her knee. He reaches out to still it with his own, lifts those bruised knuckles to his lips, and ghosts a kiss atop them gently, one by one.   
  
"Oh," he says, "men and women aren't so different. The fine details, the social expectations change, but deep down, people are fundamentally..." he turns her hand over, lets his mouth graze over the heel of her hand, presses another kiss to the pulse point in her wrist, "...lonely. And the more powerful, the more secretive, the more guarded they have to be, the more lonely they become. Offer them a cure for that most dreadful of maladies, and they won't just let you get close, they'll give you an engraved invitation to the darkest corners of their heart."  
  
Gaby's hand now rests on his shoulder beside his neck, her fingers curled loosely into the hair behind his ear, stroking absently. "Does that include you?" she asks, sounding sad.  
  
Waverly gives her a wide, patently false grin. "Of course not," he tells her. "I'm the exception to the rule. The only one." He runs his fingernails down the inside of her outstretched arm, from wrist to forearm to the soft hollow of her elbow. She shivers, and he can see the goosebumps rising on her skin. He wraps his hand around her bicep, middle finger and thumb nearly meeting, and frowns, making a mental note to supplement her food rations. "But I'm not who you have to worry about," he says, then tightens his grip almost painfully, pulling her close and lowering his voice. "You have to worry about the men you'll hate, the men who will hurt people for fun, the men who make your stomach churn. You'll have to make them want you, you'll have to pretend to want  _them,_ you'll have to get _this_ close to them and perhaps even closer, and you'll have to do it all with your very  _best_  smile." She looks faintly alarmed, and he lets go.  
  
To his surprise, Gaby doesn't pull away; she stays where she is, frozen in place. "...all right," she says, swallowing.  
  
He gentles his tone again.  "So no more of these silly shenanigans where you make a customer at your garage swallow six of his teeth. You need that job to maintain your cover story and so you can be found by the right people, understand?" She nods. "I suppose that's sorted, then. Now where was I?" He plants a kiss on the shoulder he treated so rudely. "Ah, yes.  _Intimacy._ "  
  
It doesn't surprise him she's as quick a study in this as she has been in everything else he's shown her. She copies his gestures with a tentative sort of grace that grows more confident over time, learns that coy and gentle and teasing can be more effective than crude.  So effective, in fact, that he loses track for a bit, and only realizes that things have gotten out of hand when he's lost his jacket, her sweater has found its way to the floor, and her hands are busy on his shirt buttons with the kind of delicate surety he's only ever seen her use when she's had to repair a broken radio.  
  
"...wait," Waverly says, righting his crooked glasses and pulling away. "Wait, I think. Hm."  
  
"What is it?" Gaby asks, staring up at him from where she's lying on the couch, hair almost completely undone from its updo, spilling over the cushions.  
  
It's an enticing picture, but in all fairness, he really ought to abandon the pretense before things go any further. And yet... She reaches up and catches the end of his undone tie, pulling it from his collar with agonizing slowness, expectant expression on her face.  
  
"I think we've covered enough for one day," he says, giving up. "But," he adds, leaning in again, "you've done so  _very_  well thus far that I do think you've earned a reward, what do you say?"  
  
Laughing, Gaby wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him back down to kiss him soundly. He bats her hands away when she tries to undress him further, too busy enjoying how delightfully responsive she is to each touch. She seems reluctant, though, and moreso with each layer of her clothing that he peels back, squirming and tilting her face away.  
  
He pulls back again, fretful. "Truly, Gaby, tell me if you want me to stop."  
  
"No, I'm fine," she says. "I am. I mean. I'm not used to just... lying here while someone  _looks_  at me."  
  
"Gabriella," he says, shocked. "Has no one ever taken the time to simply worship you? What a dreadful oversight. Let me rectify that immediately."  
  
"Oh," she says, eyes going wide as he proceeds to do just that. "Oh my  _God._ " He kisses every inch of skin he reveals, mapping the places that make her catch her breath and lose it again, the places that make her shiver and gasp. And then, when he's pulled away the last scrap of fabric from around her ankles, he settles on the floor, nudging her gently until she turns, knees on either side of his ribs as they kiss again. He rests his hands on her hips, dragging them down and in until his thumbs stroke through the thatch of springy hair with slow, arcing sweeps. He can feel how hot she is, how wet, and he twitches in his trousers at the impatient little noises she makes. "Please," she says. "Alexander, touch me, please."  
  
"I'll do better than that," he says, though he's already sliding two fingers between her folds, circling her entrance and dragging some of that slick back up to circle her clit in a smooth glide. "Although please, do keep saying my name like that." Her eyelids flutter shut and she bites her lip, so she doesn't see when he takes his glasses off with the other hand and sets them aside on the coffee table. She's so distracted by him slowly sinking one of those fingers into her cunt that she barely notices when he settles down on his heels.  
  
_Stunning,_  he thinks, adding a second, watching her so completely open to him, watching how every push of his hand sends a tremor through her frame,  _absolutely stunning._ And then he leans forward and presses his mouth against her, tongue slipping in beside his fingers, the rich heady taste of her making his mind go hazy around the edges.  
  
"–what?" she says, sounding breathless and a little dazed. "Oh. Oh, don't stop. Don't ever..." He licks at her again, nosing deeper, feeling her thighs tensing around him as he begins in earnest. She says his name again and again, swears in more languages than he thought she knew, and eventually has to muffle her moans with one hand.  
  
It's all rather gratifying, honestly. It's nice to know he's still got the hang of it, despite having been too preoccupied in the past few years for more than a few fleeting encounters.  
  
Waverly makes her come twice on his tongue and again with just his hand, three fingers curled deep, coaxing one last slow, shuddering orgasm from her as he watches ecstasy move over her face. She's wholly inarticulate when he's done with her, strands of hair stuck to her sweaty face and neck and shoulders, eyes lidded, cheeks flushed, lungs working like a bellows. He waits her out, feeling perhaps a tiny bit smug.  
  
"No one," she says, struggling to sit up again, "no one's done that before."  
  
"How inhuman," he says. "It's one of the best things to do with a beautiful woman, should she be willing."  
  
Gaby gives him a baffled smile, at this. "And what about all the other things on that list, hm?" She scoots forward, curling up over him, cupping his jaw in her palms and kissing him, her hair falling in a tangled curtain around them. She pulls back, licking her lips with a frown before giving him an abashed look.  
  
Waverly chuckles, wrapping his arms around her waist, enjoying the decadent feeling of a naked woman draped around him while he's still mostly dressed. "Why yes," he says, "that's what you taste like. Isn't it marvelous?"  
  
Her cheeks go pink again. "Never mind that," she says. "What about you?" Suddenly she's in his lap, her hand cupping him through his trousers, her mouth claiming his again.  
  
"You don't–" he tells her, wanting to say that she doesn't owe him anything, that he can take care of that on his own, but she's already undoing his fly and curling her fingers around him and whispering filthy encouragement against his mouth. It doesn't take long before he's coming helplessly at her touch; he's fairly sure that he's acquitted himself well enough already to dismiss any potential chagrin about that fact.  
  
When he's caught his breath, he discovers his jacket under the couch, silk handkerchief still in the breast pocket, and cleans himself up as best he can. Above him, Gaby's stretching indolently, heedless of her own nudity, wiggling into a more comfortable position on the cushions. "Well," she says, flashing him a wicked little grin as he pulls his clothing back into place, "that was certainly  _educational._ "  
  
"Ms. Teller," he says, feeling awkward as he gets to his feet. "I hope you understand that I–"  
  
"You forgot this," she says, holding up his billfold.  
  
"Oh, thank you," he says, returning it to the inside pocket of his jacket. "As I was saying, I want you to know–"  
  
"And these," she says, holding out his car keys.  
  
"Right, good," he says, then pauses. "Wait."  
  
She hands him his watch, then his border papers, then his passport. "I'm sorry," she says, not looking at all contrite, "you were trying to teach me a lesson about how to become intimate with powerful, guarded men?"  
  
"I–" he takes a moment. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
She sits up again, expression turning serious. "Alexander," she says. "it's not any of your business, but you already know that I'm not proud of some of the things I've had to do to get by.  But I don't want you to think, for one minute, that I'm not capable of getting whoever I damn well please into my bed for whatever reason I choose. But it's  _my_  choice, you understand? I only break faces and hands when someone's trying to take that away from me." She shrugs. "Don't worry, though. I'll be more discreet about it in the future."  
  
"Well," he says, still at a loss. "That's. I'd appreciate that, thank you."  
  
"Although," she says, thoughtfully. "I wouldn't be opposed to another  _lesson_  sometime, if it wouldn't be _too_ much of an imposition." She gives him a small, private smile. "You really were the first man to, um. It was very nice, that's all."  
  
That's what does it; that's what snaps Waverly out of his daze. He stoops down again to kiss her, thorough and intent. "You little minx," he says, tugging on her hair gently in emphasis. "You're going to be  _unstoppable._  I might've been the first to get on his knees for you, but I can guarantee I won't be the last, if that's what you're after." He says it without censure; their line of work so rarely allows for genuine commitments. Recurring assignations, however, are laughably common. "Though I'd be a damned fool to pass up the opportunity for a repeat performance."  
  
"I'd say so," she says. "Oh, and don't forget these," she adds, handing him his glasses.  
  
"Terrifying," he murmurs, taking them, "positively terrifying."  
  
Her giggle follows him out the door.

 

  
  
\-- END --

**Author's Note:**

> ...in this context, I imagine Waverly's smirk at the end is saying "oh, those poor men, they have _no_ idea what they're in for."


End file.
